


Warmth

by becausenobreeches (crucibulis)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Forehead Kisses, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucibulis/pseuds/becausenobreeches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Pardon the interruption, your worship. I regret to inform you that Lord Pavus has been wounded.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

Milo's neck creaks when he lifts his head, removing his gaze from the map on their makeshift war table. They've been staring at it for hours, and the more he looks at it, the less he's liked what he sees. Better to clench his eyes closed and work out the tension in his muscles for a moment, before his eyes begin to cross. “There's got to be a way to approach without us being so exposed,” he protests.

“Unfortunately not,” Cullen answers. “The path from Griffon Wing to Adamant is the quickest and therefore the safest.”

Milo frowns, thinking hard as he looks back at the map. The path goes through a vast desert, treacherous for its frigid wind and lack of cover. They'll be exposed to Adamant the entire time. “But could we not travel by nightfall?”

Alistair shakes his head, solemnly. “The cold is deadly after sunset. They already know we're here, there is no way of surprising them now.”  
“Well yes, but it would limit their visibility,” Milo argues. “Their archers--”

“Inquisitor,” Hawke interrupts with a barely restrained weariness. “Adamant Fortress is not the most defensible structure in Orlais by accident. This is not an impossible-seeming puzzle with a deceptively simple solution.”

A burst of cold, unruly wind chills the tent as a scout ducks inside. Leliana meets them at the entrance, and their voices quickly become a distraction, though they are no more than hushed whispers, as Milo tries to focus on what Cassandra is saying.

“Hawke is unfortunately right,” she says. “We have a difficult task before us. And with that comes difficult decisions.”

“Luckily, the Wardens are somewhat desperate --” Milo has heard Cullen say this part before, and he stops listening and pinches at the bridge of his nose, fighting a headache. They're going in circles now. An even worse maneuver than taking Adamant head on.

“Oh.” Leliana's voice pierces through his frustration. There is concern there, worry, and when he lifts his head, she is looking at him with eyes a smidgen too wide for someone so well versed in the Game of Masks.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

A noncommittal nod from the Spymaster. “The corporal wishes to make a report to you personally, Inquisitor.”

Milo’s heart beats a little faster in his chest. “Yes?”

The scout marches around the table and comes to attention, regarding Milo with a sharp salute. “Pardon the interruption, your worship. I regret to inform you that Lord Pavus has been wounded.”

It hits him like a flash of lightning, falling out of the sky, and he takes in a sharp gasp before he can think to stop it. But then he remembers, he's in a room full of veteran fighters who are looking to him to provide leadership. He cannot show weakness now, cannot fall apart at the news of one man’s fate when the whole world is in peril.

Even if that one man is his lover.

Milo is still trying to will his expression into submission when Cullen asks, “What happened?”

“Varghests attacked the camp,” the scout reports. “Lord Pavus was one of those that responded to the threat.”

Milo is still fighting for control, but he knows he will fare no better than a master of the Game. “...What is the extent of his injuries?”

“He took a fall and hit his head, sir.”

“Is he _conscious?”_

“Yes -- Well, he was,” the scout admits nervously, perhaps afraid Milo will shoot the messenger. He or his superiors must know what Dorian means to him or he wouldn't be here. “He's resting now. The healers don't expect permanent damage, but he's disoriented.”

Milo can feel all the eyes in the room on him, waiting to see how he'll react. So he doesn't, just stays very still, fighting the urge to fidget, or hyperventilate, or free his sword from its scabbard and go find a varghest to slay out of vengeance, or do anything but nothing at all.  “Is that the worst of it?” he inquires, and wonders if he's managed to sound the correct amount of concerned.

“Yes, some minor lacerations, nothing more. He did require a few stitches,” the scout says.

“But he is stable?”

“Yes sir.”

Is it appropriate to let out a sigh of relief? Is  that what he would do if he and Dorian were just friends? And would that be a proper reaction, from a man about to send an entire army across the wastelands to die? Milo barely nods, struggling to keep his breathing silent and even. “Where is he now?”

“He is in the healers' tent, sir.”

“Alright,” Milo sighs then. “I will come see him when I'm finished here. Thank you for informing me.”

The scout salutes again, and then just stands there, waiting for something. But Milo is too distracted to notice. He's _shaking_ with anxiety and desperately needs to _not look affected_ in front of two veterans of the Fifth Blight, two veterans of the Kirkwall Clusterfuck, and Cassandra, Seeker of Truth, and Slayer of Fucking Dragons.

“Dismissed, corporal, thank you,” Cullen says gently and Milo barely keeps from wincing. _He_ was supposed to do that.

Fuck.

 _“Right,”_ he declares in a clipped voice as he turns back to the table and the map and five sets of eyes. “Where were we?”

Everyone stays silent, just looking at him with varying degrees of interest or concern.

Then Cassandra speaks up. “Inquisitor,” she says, then hesitates, looking conflicted but sympathetic. “If you need to go --”

“It's fine!” Milo insists, shrugging it off. “He's fine. He's in good hands. That can wait; this really can't,” he reminds them, reminds himself.

“Perhaps,” Cullen says, then clears his throat, averting his eyes a bit. “Perhaps it would not be a bad idea for us to call a short recess,” he suggests, all too innocently. “It might help us see it differently when we return.”

Then a dramatic gasp from Alistair as he gestures with one index finger. “I just remembered!” he announces, a gleam in his eye. “I have a... thing... I need to check on.”

Milo half-rolls his eyes at them, exasperated even as some of the tension falls out of his shoulders. “Hopeless romantics the lot of you,” he scolds but not without affection. “But you've twisted my arm…” he say wryly as he rushes towards the exit of the tent. “I'll be back shortly,” he calls, and then jogs out into the late-afternoon light.

 

Dorian is dozing on a small cot near the wall of the tent, and though his heart is pounding, Milo tries to compensate by being as quiet as he can as he grabs a chair and sits beside him. Dorian looks pained, even in slumber, and Milo can’t help but reach out to brush a finger or two through his disheveled hair, hoping to provide comfort.

His chest is bare, though they’ve given him a blanket, but Dorian has shucked it off in his sleep to reveal the line of stitches that runs down his upper arm. His lip has been slightly busted open, and there’s some bruising, but Milo has seen and been through much worse himself. The blow to Dorian’s head is the real concern, but Milo is helpless to do anything about that except pull the blanket back over Dorian’s shoulder and go back to carefully stroking his hair.

There’s a soft grunt and Dorian’s breathing changes, the man’s eyes squeezing shut and then fluttering open, unfocused and dreary.

“Well hello there,” Milo greets him quietly, with more optimism than he really feels.

Dorian’s grey eyes are soft as they look at him, an almost doe-like quality that is rarely seen. Then he shuts them again and responds with a grumbly noise that speaks to how little he wants to be conscious right now.

“How are you feeling?” Milo asks anyway, because he can’t stop himself from annoying Dorian to show he cares, even now. Especially now.

Dorian opens his eyes just enough to glare, and then focuses on the task of calibrating his mouth for speaking, licking his lips and stretching out his jaw with a yawn. “Like I tripped over a sand dune's tail and took a tumble down a varghest,” he answers finally, his voice scratchy from drowsiness. “Or something to that effect,” he says and closes his eyes again.

Milo cups Dorian’s cheek in his hand, just needing to touch him, to feel the warmth of him against his skin. To his surprise, Dorian lets out a pleased hum and leans into it, almost rubbing against Milo’s hand like a cat. Needy and more affectionate than usual, and Milo’s heart breaks a little, wishing he could see Dorian like this more often, but not if it’s at the expense of his well being.  

“I'm fairly sure I'm the only one you should be taking tumbles with,” Milo teases softly.

“Yes,” Dorian rasps in agreement, his eyes still heavy lidded but a bit more interested now. “That would have been _marginally_ more pleasant.”

Milo gapes at him, scandalized. “Ouch! Only _marginally?”_ he laughs, voice pitching higher with shock. So _this_ is how he’s repaid for rushing to his lover’s side, he thinks. But Dorian making jokes is a very good sign, and relief quickly soothes Milo’s wounded pride.

He pulls his hand away from Dorian’s face, but Dorian grabs after it, squeezing it tight and awkwardly twining their fingers together. “Hush,” he whispers. He licks his lips and seems to deliberate a few moments over what to say next. “I already feel better just having you here.”

“Then I am truly sorry,” Milo laments, though he is still managing to smile. “For I cannot stay but a few moments longer. I only came to see for myself that you were alright.”

Dorian frowns at this, pouting, then grunts when frowning causes him more pain than is apparently worth it. Milo leans down and presses a long kiss to his brow. “Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I love you, but I'm kind of in the middle of a war here.”

Dorian blinks at him, finally opening his bleary eyes. “You... love me?” he repeats, half question, half disbelieving statement.

“I do,” Milo promises, squeezing his hand. “I would say ‘with all my heart,’ but, when they told me you were injured, I'm quite sure my heart plummeted out of my chest and fell into the Abyss.”

Dorian smiles weakly. “How _poetic_ you are,” he teases in an airy voice, and then they just smile at each other brightly, the mischievous sparkle back in Dorian’s eyes and Milo’s heart back in his throat. “Well. I don't know _what_ has possessed me,” Dorian says at last. “But it would seem I love you, as well.”

Milo grunts thoughtfully. “You did hit your head recently. That seems the most likely explanation,” he says with a beaming smile.

“Ah yes, there is that,” Dorian ponders. “Since _clearly_ I've taken leave of my senses.”

“It must be worse than we realized,” Milo agrees.

The mischief in Dorian’s face spreads to his smile, one curl of his mustache quirking to the side, still held perfectly in place by some secret method Dorian refuses to share. “If I convince you of that, will you stay?” he purrs.

Milo’s brow furrows as he shakes his head. “I can't,” he croaks, feeling the regret like a heavy weight over his ribs. For Dorian to ask so _openly_ ... “But you're in good hands here, yeah?”

“Not as good as yours…” Dorian flirts, and traces a finger down the side of Milo’s hand and over his wrist, and _Maker_ , how can the man be so enticing even when he’s barely conscious? It’s entirely unfair.

Milo’s been blushing for a while, but he’s been too caught up to notice until his ears start to burn. “Is it just me, or is it quite warm in here?” he laughs as he pulls away from Dorian’s touch, trying to lighten the mood.

Dorian falls back onto his pillow. “It's not _just_ you,” he answers, clearly pleased with himself. He wiggles his fingers playfully to signify magic. “A spell.”

Milo looks around the tent but there are only magelights illuminating the space. “Fire?”

Dorian shakes his head. “Warmth. There's…” he gestures with a wave of his hand. “Runes around the perimeter.”

_The cold is deadly after sunset..._

Suddenly, a flicker of an idea comes to Milo.  “How large an area could you cover with such a spell?” he asks quickly.

“I don't know,” Dorian admits, in that amused, surprised tone because he so _rarely_ doesn’t that it’s a novelty. “I suppose it would depend on how many mages you had to cast it.”

“And with the number we have here?”

Dorian lifts his head off the bed and narrows his eyes. “What are you up to?” he accuses warmly.

“Dorian, how big?” Milo presses, leaning forward in his chair. “As big as the camp?”

Or at least big enough for all the people _in_ the camp...

“I believe so…” Dorian mumbles, deep in thought. “Yes, almost certainly.”

Milo rushes forward and presses a dramatic, sloppy kiss to Dorian’s mouth, then quickly rises, leaving the mage looking dazed. “I have to go,” he announces. “I-I'll come visit you later!”

“...Are you sure _I'm_ the one who hit his head?” he hears Dorian call after him as he’s rushing out of the tent.


End file.
